


For Reasons Wretched and Divine

by sequence_fairy



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, PWP, Smut, it is an exercise in how much religious imagery can i pack into porn, this is probably also not safe for people who are not heathens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 03:20:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8561608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy
Summary: there’s no part of scripturethat ever prepared you for his hands.hands that map a communionin the cradle of your hips. (x)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [deathberryprompts](http://deathberryprompts.tumblr.com.) weekly drabble theme. The theme was 'shattered'.

Sometimes, when they do this, it’s quick and fast and so, _so_ hot – hot enough that Rukia thinks she might scald herself on the heat of him. Other times, it’s sweet and slow and lovely and so tender that Rukia thinks that if she wasn’t holding on to him or he to her, they would come apart at the seams.

And then, there’s nights like _this_ – nights where it is utterances of the most selfish of devotions and they prostrate themselves as offerings upon the altar of the nameless, faceless patron deity of their combined combustion.

She arches under the sweep of his hands down her body, shudders under the teasing bite of his teeth, and melts under the muttered litany of her name dark and low and buried in the silken skin of her inner thighs, in the hollow of her throat, in the soft swell of her breasts.

“Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” Rukia implores, the words dragged from her throat like the desperate prayers of the beautifully damned. He answers her in half-whispered incantations – filthy promises on his lips and profanity in the press of his hands.

Above her, in the half-light of her bedroom, Ichigo grins – she can see the glint of moonlight on his teeth and it is reflected in his eyes. He is sharp angles and calloused fingers, hot mouth and slippery tongue and ginger hair gripped between her fingers. His name on her lips is like a plea for mercy - a plea that he ignores in favour of his never-ending quest to find the boundaries of her self-control, to find the flawless edge of the knife upon which she balances under the onslaught of her desire.

He is _relentless_ in his pursuit of her pleasure and the coil of anticipation in her gut tightens and tightens and tightens until she is sure that she will simply fly apart at the moment of her release.

And yet, he winds her tighter, still.

Her affirmations turn to beseeching confessions and still he does not let her crest the peak, still he holds her back; still he holds himself back. She can feel the tension in him - in the bowstring arch of his back, the stuttering strain in the locked joints of his elbows - as he drives her on and on and on and up and up and up.

“Ichigo,” she begs, “Ichigo. _Please_.” It’s more sob than moan and he groans into her neck, and grits his teeth and finally, finally, reaches between them and with the barest brush of his fingers, she is shattered – broken into millions of tiny, glittering pieces that spill like diamonds across black velvet.

They call it _le petit mort_ \- the little death - because that’s what it is. You ascend for one brief moment from the plane of mortal existence onto that which can only be described as divine. This is transcendence, this is transmutation, this is the holiest of all the sacraments and here, at the peak, Rukia is torn asunder, and then she is _remade_ , and she is _reforged_ and she is recreated anew and then she is released.


End file.
